One in a Thousand; or, The Days of Henri Quatre. G. P. R. James

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      CHAPTER VIII.

      The carriage which contained Beatrice of Ferrara rolled on with slow and measured pace through the narrow and tortuous streets of old Paris, till at length, as it was performing the difficult man[oe]uvre of turning a sharp angle, it was encountered by a small party of horsemen, in the simple garments of peace, which, at that warlike period, was a less common occurrence than to see every one who could bear them clad in grim arms. The right of staring into carriages, when the velvet curtains were withdrawn, was already established in Paris; and it needed but a brief glance to make the principal cavalier of the group draw in his bridle rein, beckon the coachman to stop, and, springing to the ground, approach the portiere of the vehicle wherein Beatrice was placed. As usual in those days, she was not alone; but, while a number of lackeys graced the outside of her carriage, two or three female attendants were seated in the interior of the machine, leaving still a space within its ample bulk for many another, had it been necessary. More than one pair of eyes were thus upon her; and yet Beatrice, though brought up in a court--where feelings themselves were nearly reckoned contraband, and all expression of them prohibited altogether--could not repress the very evident signs of agitation which the approach of that cavalier occasioned. Her cheek reddened, her breathing became short, and she sank back upon the embroidered cushions of the carriage, as if she would fain have avoided the meeting. The agitation lasted but a moment, however; and as soon as he spoke, she was herself again: perhaps gaining courage from seeing that his own cheek was flushed, and that his own voice trembled as he addressed her.

      "A thousand, thousand pardons, lady!" he said, standing bareheaded by the door, "for stopping your carriage in the streets; but these unfortunate wars have rendered it so long since we have met, that most anxious am I----!"

      "My lord Count d'Aubin," replied Beatrice, raising her head proudly, "the time of your absence from Paris has not seemed to me so long as to make me rejoice that it is at an end!"

      "I have no right to expect another answer," replied D'Aubin, in a low voice; "and yet, Beatrice, perhaps I could say something in my own defence."

      "Which I should be most unwilling to hear," replied the lady, coldly. "I doubt not, sir Count, that you can say much in your own defence: I never yet knew man that could not, but a plain idiot, or one born dumb. But what is your defence to me? I am neither your judge nor your accuser. If your own heart charges you with ambition, or avarice, or falsehood, plead your cause with it, and, doubtless, you will meet with a most lenient judge. Will you bid the coachman drive on, sir? this is a foolish interruption, and a narrow street."

      "Oh, Beatrice!" exclaimed the Count d'Aubin, piqued by her coldness, "at least delay one moment, till you tell me you are well and happy: I have just heard that you have been ill--very ill."

      "I have, sir," she replied; "I caught the fever that was prevalent here; but I am well again, as you see, and should be perfectly happy, if I did not hear King Henry's artillery above once a week, and if people would not stop my carriage in the streets."

      "And is that all you will say to me, Beatrice?" asked the Count, in the same low tone which he had hitherto used--"is that all you will say, after all that has passed?"

      "I know nothing, sir, that has passed between us," replied Beatrice aloud, "except that once or twice, in a fit of wine or folly, you vowed that you loved Beatrice of Ferrara better than life, or wealth, or rank, or station; and that she received those vows as she has done a thousand others, from a thousand brighter persons than Philip Count d'Aubin, namely, as idle words, which foolish men will speak to foolish women, for want of better wit and more pleasant conversation; as words which you had probably spoken to a hundred others, before you spoke them to me, and which you will yet, in all probability, speak to a hundred more, who will believe them just as much as I did, and forget them quite as soon. Once more, sir, then, will you order the coachman to drive on, or let me do so, and retire from the wheel, lest it strike you, and the Catholic League lose a valiant convert by an ignoble death?"

      "Nay, there at least you do me wrong!" replied the Count d'Aubin: "the Catholic League has no convert in me; I am here, under a safe conduct, on matters of no slight importance to my good cousin St. Real: but to his Majesty will I adhere, so long as he and I both live!"

      "Indeed!" cried Beatrice, with a light laugh. "Is there anything in which the fickle Count d'Aubin will not be fickle? Nay, nay, make no rash vows; remember, you have not yet heard all the golden arguments which his Highness, the lieutenant-general of the kingdom and the League can hold out. Suppose he offer you the hand of some rich heiress; could you resist, sir Count? could you resist?"

      D'Aubin coloured, perhaps because Beatrice had gone deeper into the secrets of his inmost thoughts than he felt agreeable. He answered, however, boldly, "I could resist anything against my honour."

      "Honour!" exclaimed Beatrice, with a scoff: "honour! Marguerite, tell the coachman to drive on. Honour!"

      D'Aubin drew back, with an air at once of pain and anger, made a silent sign to the coachman to proceed, and, springing on his horse, galloped down the street, followed by his attendants, at a pace which risked their own necks upon the unequal causeway of the town, and which certainly showed but little consideration for the safety of the passengers. The emotions of Philip d'Aubin, however, were such as did not permit of consideration for himself or others. He felt himself condemned, and he believed himself despised, by the only woman that, perhaps, he had ever truly loved. The better feelings of his heart, too, rose against him: he knew that his conduct was ungenerous; and he felt that, had the time been one when faith and honour towards woman were aught but mere names, his behaviour would have been dishonourable in the eyes of mankind, as well as in the stern code of abstract right and wrong: and unhappy is the man who has no other means of justifying himself to his own heart but by pleading the follies and vices of his age. D'Aubin did plead those follies and vices, however, and he pleaded them successfully, so far as in soon banishing reflection went; but there was a sting left behind, which was the more bitter, perhaps, as mortified vanity had no small share in the pain that he suffered. He had believed that he could not so soon be treated with scorn and indifference; he had fancied that his hold on the heart of Beatrice of Ferrara was too strong to be shaken off so easily; and though he had no definite object in retaining that hold, though other passions had for the time triumphed over affection, and placed a barrier between himself and her which he was not willing to overleap, yet still the lingering love that would not be banished was wounded by her bitter tone; and, joined to humbled pride and offended vanity, made his feelings aught but pleasing.

      In the meantime, the carriage of Beatrice of Ferrara bore her on with a heart in which sensations as bitter were thronging; though, as we have seen in her conversation with Eugenie de Menancourt, her feelings towards her lover were less keen and scornful than her words might lead him to believe. On the state of her bosom, however, there is no necessity to dwell here, as many an occasion will present itself for explaining it in her own words; and it may СКАЧАТЬ